Mercy
by Quartermaster
Summary: The North has known many great warriors, from Brandon Stark who died at the hand of the Mad King to Hother "Whoresbane" Umber. But there will always be the unsung heroes who died too young. Domeric Bolton is one of those unsung heroes. His life was cut short by his sadist brother, leaving the question in the air: What could have been? This is his story.
1. Domeric

**A/N**: If you're interested in rating/reviewing this fan fic, by all means, speak your mind! This is my interpretation of the last few weeks of Domeric Bolton's life. It is a look into what _could_ have been. Roose's son was a prodigy and if he had survived, he could have been one of the most influential men the North has ever seen. It is only fitting that _somebody_ tell his story. Hopefully I am qualified enough to do so... sooo enjoy!

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They were seven days from the Dreadfort, the taste of blood getting stronger in the air with every passing mile. The others, the men of the Vale, claimed that they didn't taste anything but Domeric knew what blood tasted like and he was certain. _It tasted of home, of the Dreadfort, of the dark smokey halls of my youth_.

Ser Martyn spat a wad of phlegm into the ground and trotted forward, keeping up with Domeric's speed. "You've been quiet since we left that town. Didn't see you with the rest of the men either. Most were off with a whore, maybe grabbing a drink. You were nowhere to be seen, Dom."

"I was sleeping," Domeric said. "Not every man has a constant desire to fuck whores, ser."

"The normal ones do," Martyn laughed. He was a knight, raised up during the War of the Ninepenny Kings after being no more than a Riverlands peasant. He kept quiet of his rise to knighthood, never sharing the details, which left Domeric with his doubts. But either way, the man was good with a mace. He was tasked with teaching Domeric the art of cracking skulls and beating opponents bloody with the heavy-handed tool. "Don't tell me you're worried about returning home?"

Domeric gave him a sideways glance. He didn't like being cross examined by Ser Martyn, let alone any of the men from the Vale. Some were Lord Redfort's men, but he still did not trust them. Nor did he trust the north – in all of its cold and decrepit splendor – he yearned for the Vale once again. He knew those kind of feelings would never sit well with his father, but Domeric felt lost without his _brothers_. Jasper and Creighton, Jon and Mychel. They were not his blood but they treated him all the same. They were Lord Redfort's sons and the only family he knew during his time in the vale. It was Jon, most of all, that he had missed.

They were of the same age, Jon Redfort and Domeric Bolton. The day Domeric arrived in the Vale, he did not leave the room Lord Horton had prepared for him. He stayed there for nearly a week, only coming out when Lord Horton called for him. The Lord of the Redfort was close to sending Domeric back home to his father, but one day the master-of-arms brought news of seeing Domeric in the training yard. He was found arguing with Jon, which led them into a spar. Ser Martyn was there to witness it and laughed his arse off when Jon brought Domeric to the ground, and it was then that the northern boy decided he couldn't let it happen again. He trained and worked at sword, but found the mace was more apt for him, and soon he was learning how to fight. The rivalry he had with Jon Redfort, blossomed into a friendship.

They played together, they worked together, and Jon became his closest friend. _A brother_, Domeric repeated. "Jon wanted to come see me off, to take the ride to the Dreadfort. Lord Horton refused to let him go."

"That's what has your tongue in a knot?" Ser Martyn chuckled. "The Lord of the Redfort is a superstitious man, probably didn't want to send one of his sons into the Dreadfort. Rightfully so... lad, your birthplace boasts quite a fearsome history."

"I know the tales, Ser Martyn. But they are just that. _Tales_." Even Domeric could feel the lie slipping past his lips. The Dreadfort had a long, dark history. House Bolton bore the flayed man as their sigil for a reason and their words, _Our Blades are Sharp_ was as clear as day. Though the Starks outlawed the act of flaying a man, Domeric knew it was still practiced within the walls of the Dreadfort. No man could deny the screams that echoed along the long hallways and chambers were men who had crossed the Lord of Bolton, perhaps stolen from him. Domeric swore that when he was the Lord of the Dreadfort, he would never allow such acts to be committed under his roof. Domeric would be a different kind of lord. But for now, Roose Bolton ruled.

Hours of riding rolled by with Domeric keeping to his silence, Ser Martyn yapping incessantly and the men of the Vale growing colder with every passing minute. They were used to the chill of the Eerie, but the North was a different kind of cold. It settled in your bones and hung there, the frost tightening around every muscle and joint. If you weren't smart, it would take you in an instant before you even realized you were dead. The Starks bore their words for a reason, _Winter is Coming_. The cold of Winter is something to be feared.

Domeric was dressed properly for the weather. He wore wool over his leathers, fasted with two straps across his breast. Moleskin boots and gloves sat on his appendages while wolf's fur lined his cloak. The cloak was long and shimmered in the light, faint hues of silver and pink dancing before your eyes. The flayed man of House Bolton was sewn onto the back – any man they passed would know who Domeric was after one look. But it wasn't his attire that would tell them, it was his eyes.

He had his father's eyes. Small, pale things. They were like pools of ice, reflecting back anything that looked into them. Cold and calm, never showing what exactly the man behind them was thinking about. Domeric knew what kind of eyes he had. _The eyes of a killer_.

Tears streamed down his eyes as the cold bit into them and he wiped at his pale cheeks with the back of his glove, "Ser Martyn, we should rest soon. This wind is getting tiresome."

But before Ser Martyn had a chance to respond, an arrow sent him sprawling off of his horse. A scream followed as his horse whinnied and charged off, the men of the Vale scurrying to avoid and locate the attacker.

Domeric lowered his head and rode ahead, his eyes peeled for the slightest movement. "Ser Martyn," he yelled. "Ser Martyn!"

Ser Martyn cursed. "I'm alive, I'm alive. Seven Bloody Hells... they're in the trees."

Another arrow exploded from the brush, bouncing off the shield of a Vale soldier. He leaped from his horse and charged ahead into the trees, disappearing into a fight. More figures sprouted up, one after the next. "Outlaws," Domeric growled.

He drew his mace and felt the weight of it in his grasp. He rode his horse forward and swung at a shadow, sending the man to the ground. "Kill them! Kill them all!" one of the outlaws shouted before launching another arrow into the crowd.

Domeric jumped from his horse and met one of the attackers, a square-jawed man with a shaggy black beard. He raised his sword and brought it down towards Dom, but the boy was too fast. He sidestepped and brought his mace into the outlaws face. The sound of it stuck with Domeric like an old wound, the wicked _cracking_ of bone and mush of flesh. He remembered that sound with every swing. In battle, it was wise to remember just who reigned supreme in the end. No matter what, death was always the winner and Domeric accepted that.

Another man of the Vale fell with a spear in his belly, but his killer was quickly slayed. The attackers thinned out, their numbers waning to only four or five.

Domeric grabbed one of the men from the ground and slid a dagger from his hip. He pressed it against the man's neck and leaned in close. "Who are you? Why did you attack us?"

"Go fuck yourself you southern swine," the man spat. He smelled of shit and grime.

"Do you know who I am?" Domeric asked.

The man cursed but did not answer.

He spun the man around on his knee and titled his head up and for a brief second, Domeric stared into his eyes. "Do you know who I am?" he asked again, his voice as cold as steel.

Never before had Domeric seen such fear in a man's eyes. It was like seeing a small animal about to get slaughtered, the way his eyes widened and jaw dropped. Something passed his lips, maybe a word or two. Perhaps he was praying? Domeric did not care. "Good, then you do know."

"Please, my lord... kill me and be done with it. I beg of you."

_He thinks I am my father_, the thought amused Domeric. "Why did you attack us?" Domeric asked.

"You had good steel with you, warm clothes, good horses... we thought you were just travelers, I swear, my lord," the man gasped. Spittle was dribbling down his lips, his hands twitching ever so slightly. "Please, my lord..."

_He doesn't even know what he is begging for, as long as it is merciful_.

_But I do not know mercy_.

Domeric pressed the blade against the man's eye and pried it from the skull and when he collapsed and started screaming, Domeric called two of the men of the Vale to hold him up. He stabbed the man once in the stomach, and again. He felt the warmth of his blood, even through his gloves. Domeric took no pleasure in his kill – not until the last moment.

He leaned in close and whispered.

"I am not Lord Bolton," he said. He saw the confusion in the man's face. "I am his son, Domeric Bolton, heir of the Dreadfort. And I will show you mercy."

He cut the man's throat with one quick move.


	2. Domeric II

If the men of the Vale could not smell the blood in the air before, it was burning at the hairs in their nose now. Three had died in the attack, speared, sliced, and bludgeoned. Domeric observed each of their bodies before settling down beside Ser Martyn, "The arrow caught you in the shoulder. It seems luck is on your side, ser."

Ser Martyn grimaced, "It ain't luck. You northerners are just shit with bows." He bit into a rag as one of the Vale men tended his wound, breaking off the tail end of the arrow. He was a sprightly youth named Pate, who Martyn had taken to calling _greenboy. _"You pull it hard and good, you got that greenboy?" he said through the rag.

Pate nodded and pulled the arrow from the wound, blood sputtering out. He quickly covered it with a clean piece of cloth, applying pressure to it. Domeric watched, arms crossed. His mind wandered while watching Pate work, his thoughts lingering on the face of the man he killed. The fear in his eyes when Domeric spoke his name, it made his blood boil. _I am not my father_, he should have said. _I will give you mercy, unlike he ever would_. But no, he looked at death straight in the face and let both the Gods and the man know just who he was. The son of Roose Bolton.

"I saw what you did to that one," Martyn cursed as Pate applied an ointment to the wound. "I can't say I ever saw that side to you while you were in the Vale. Think you know a guy, greenboy, aye?" Pate looked up anxiously and returned to the wound.

"They attacked us on my father's lands. That is the price they had to pay, the price _he _had to pay. Do you know what my father says, Ser Martyn?" Domeric sat on top of a rock and watched intently as Pate worked. "A peaceful land a quiet people. They sought to disturb that peace and that was their punishment."

"You ripped out his eye, lad," Martyn laughed. Pate was working on wrapping the shoulder, quick and tight. "When we get to the Dreadfort, I'll have a proper Maester look at it. No offense to you, greenboy, I just don't want to die any time soon. You understand."

Pate nodded with a frown. "We should have come by boat. Or taken the long way around. We could have stopped along the way and have protection. The Cerwyns, the Starks, any of them would have received us kindly."

"The weather wouldn't permit the calmest of travels," Domeric said calmly. "The forests were supposed to be free of danger. I don't know why there are outlaws here. My father would never allow such acts to go on under his watch."

"I guess you and your father are going to have to talk a few things through when we arrive at the Dreadfort now, aren't we?" Ser Martyn said. He rose, his shoulder burning like a red hot sun. He staggered a moment, but found his footing. Domeric saw the fury and pain in Martyn's eyes, the way they flickered with anger. Martyn wasn't ready to die, not yet at least.

There was a long pause as Martyn slowly walked towards one of the bodies. "Myles, Desmond, and Loren Stone," his voice waned. "They were all good men. We should bury the bodies as quickly as possible."

"We should burn the bodies," Domeric said. "The ground is cold and cruel. The fire will give them peace."

The men of the Vale, those who were still alive, seemed uncertain. Even Ser Martyn was quiet.

It was Pate who spoke up. "My mother once said a burial by flame is like walking through a dark tunnel and seeing a light at the end of it. You see the light and it gives you hope, so you keep walking towards it and eventually you feel the light on your skin and you are free."

There was an eerie silence that followed. The winds picked up and whistled through the ashen tees. Domeric tried to speak but when he opened his mouth, he noticed something. The taste of blood was gone in the air.

"A fire it is," Martyn lifted up the first branch from the forest floor and the others soon followed.

The flames were bright that night, so bright that Domeric figured that his father could see them all the way in the Dreadfort. The men of the Vale circled the flames and watched as their comrades burned, the smell and crackle of flesh so repulsive that it nearly brought them to vomit. But they held their stomachs and stood vigil for the three lost souls. Pate knelt before the flames and said a prayer, the Stranger's prayer. Though Domeric wasn't of the Seven, he recognized it as the prayer septons used to guide dead souls into the afterlife.

Martyn stood closest to the flame, staring into it longingly. Domeric watched him for a while, seeing just what exactly he would do.

After the flames eventually died down, Ser Martyn lingered by the fire and Domeric eventually went to bed. As he lulled to sleep, Domeric thought of many things. He thought of Jon back at the Redfort, of Ser Martyn and his wound, of Pate and his wise words. But most of all, he thought of his father. _Just what is going on with you, father?_

That night, Domeric dreamed. He saw his reflection staring back at him. Those dirty ice-colored eyes, pale as milk, covering his soul in frost. He lashed out at himself and was met with a horrendous laugh, blood curdling and fierce.

"Death," his reflection repeated, and then he saw the face of Myles in the darkness. "Death," it said again and he saw the face of Desmond. "Death," it said once more, and he saw the face of Loren Stone. The reflection stepped forward. He thought it was moving to strike, but it did not. It hugged him. Its grip was cold and uninviting and Domeric tried to get free, but the reflection pulled him in tight and gently pressed its face against his own.

"Death," and the darkness swallowed him whole.


End file.
